


trouble makes everything alright

by GrimRevolution



Category: Daredevil (TV), Jessica Jones (TV)
Genre: Cussing, F/M, Meet-Cute, Porn With Plot, Sex, Strangers to Lovers, except not really, parallel to daredevil season 1, started as porn without plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-11 15:14:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17449397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrimRevolution/pseuds/GrimRevolution
Summary: Hell's Kitchen wasn't that big of a place and strangers ran into each other all the time.She was just a bit more dangerous than most.





	1. T-R-O-U-B-L-E

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> matt always hoped that he would knock on death's door late, drunk, and a little in love.

 

There was a thin, coltish woman in the alley below Matt whose footsteps echoed with the heaviness of her motorcycle boots. A tidal wave of alcohol rode in her wake, spinning with buoys of coconut shampoo, cheap detergent, and unscented soap. Her heartbeat was steady, her breathing buffered by the scarf across her nose, and three men were following her every footstep.

Matt heard their pulses pick up in the excitement of the hunt, heard them slip around trash bags and dumpsters and pools of melted snow. They picked up their pace and lost their concentration in the heat of the pursuit and the hunger for violence that rumbled between their sinews. One kicked a bottle, knocking glass into brick and the woman turned around.

Sliding onto the fire escape,  Matt braced his hands on the rusted, chilled metal. It was a good thirty, forty feet to the ground and he would have preferred to climb down most of it, but without the time he was fully prepared to vault himself over. He would have to drop between the charging men and the woman who—

Who hadn’t moved.

“You’ve _got_ to be kidding me,” she grumbled, her tone rising like the swell of that massive volcano under Yellowstone.

The _ping ping ping_ of Matt climbing down was covered by the footsteps of the men who charged their prey with the thundering heavy footed stomps of rhinos and the woman yanking a metal lid off a nearby trashcan. He wasn’t fast enough to stop the first attacker from reaching her, but managed to land between in front of the others.

They faltered, sputtered, regained their footing.

Matt ducked beneath the first punch, jumped back from the other. He slipped in and out of the violence—jab, kick, duck, block, jab. Anger roared around his ears, danger hissed along his spine. A fist glanced off his ribs and he swung harder, danced faster.

On the very edge of his senses, the woman kept the lid between her body and the one that slammed her against the wall. Shotgun curses exploded into the alley, echoing off old brick, trash, and the starless sky. Air shifted, breaking over a man’s back as she shoved the metal away from her chest.

Flesh hit brick, the lid was tossed aside, and she rained down a hailstorm of beautiful rage.

Matt knocked two heads into the dumpster, heard the men fall into piles of groaning sacks of meat and bones, and turned all of his attention to the thin hands buried in cheap, faux leather.

“The fuck do you think you’re doing, shitbag?” The woman snarled, pulled back, and slammed her whimpering captive back against the wall.

His feet were dangling inches above the ground and she—

She was half his size. Maybe less.

_Jesus_.

Matt sucked in a breath. He listened to the steady _ba-dum_ of her heart, felt the steadiness in her arms, smelled the whiskey that settled upon her like a shroud. With careful steps, he moved forward, hoping that she wouldn’t spook and use that strength for something a bit more harmful.

“Stop crying, asshole,” Her voice cracked across Matt’s thoughts like a whip. “I got my fucking pictures but you just had to go and make this _personal_.” One fist pulled back, the other hand easily keeping the man pinned against the wall as if she was holding a slip of paper.

Lunging forward, Matt wrapped his fingers around the woman’s wrist (she was wearing wool, fingerless gloves and the heat of her skin almost burned the pads of his fingers) and she froze, breath curling in the air between them. There was a wire of strength that buzzed through her and he knew, without a single thread of doubt, that if she decided to punch the guy in the face there wasn’t a damn thing that could be done to stop her.

“He’s learned his lesson.”

A yank pulled Matt in, his nose almost slamming against hers if it wasn’t for the arm between them, pressing into the soft, exposed flesh of his neck. Breath washed over his lips—hot and whiskey filled—and her knitted scarf brushed against his chin. “Let. Me. _Go_.” She hissed, the sound like a snake twisting in the underbrush.

For the first time in the past five minutes, Matt heard her heart rate spike. The sound thundered in his ears and he paused, tilting his head to the side not quite able to figure out why the sudden increase when the three men hadn’t so much of gotten a jump.

She got sick of his lack of movement, twisted her arm, and flung Matt Murdock onto his ass.

With a gurgling moan, the man against the wall slumped into unconsciousness.

“Useless bag of _shit_ —” the woman muttered, letting go without a care where her attacker (victim?) landed. Her boots made their way over to Matt and he readied himself for a punch or a kick or anything to keep him down. Instead, she leaned against the dumpster, hummed at the two assholes he had taken out, and just watched him struggle.

“Is this common now?” Her voice had lost most of its teeth bared coyote snarl and settled for dull-bladed words. “Masked assholes running around, beating people up? Or are you just making a fashion statement?”

On his feet, Matt rose slowly; straightening his legs, his torso, his arms. Nothing ached beyond his pride and he was sure that—had she wanted to—he would have had a lot more broken bones to his name. “Fashion statement?”

He heard her hand move and lurched backwards more out of instinct when fingers got too close to the fabric wrapped across the upper part of his face. A car honked a few blocks away, creating a chorus with her raging heartbeat and the unsteady exhale she tried to hide (it would have worked, too, if the person listening hadn’t been him).

The pieces clicked together as she pulled her arm back in, keeping the movement slow as if trying not to startle a wild animal.

He breathed out through his nose. “The mask protects me.”

“If you think that shit works as a helmet then I have some bad news for you.”

Matt barked out a laugh—sudden and quiet—and blinked his sightless eyes in surprise. “It protects my identity,” he corrected.

She grunted, but he couldn’t tell if she agreed or not.  

“Are you hurt?” Matt asked and felt like an idiot as the words slipped over his lips. “You were just followed by three men into an alleyway—”

“Won’t be the first time,” she huffed and nudged one of the unconscious bag of flesh with the toe of her boot.

The grin that found itself onto his lips was a surprise and a welcome. “Do this often, then?”

Her weight shifted, denim rubbing together between her thighs, boots whispering as they adjusted to their new position. So much strength in such a small form. Matt wondered what it was like when the world around her was made of such flimsy cardboard.

“Probably less than you do, bandana boy.”

_Touché_.

She decided something, in the quiet that settled between them. Rubber scuffed against asphalt as she took a step towards him and the muscles along his shoulders tightened, heart speeding up against his ribs. Her palm rested on his sternum; small with thin fingers that had no calluses with a gentleness that didn’t quite fit the snap in her voice and the crackle in her veins.

Not even the chill from the night could diminish the heat that came from her slowly invading his space and she pushed him underneath the fire escape, against the alley wall. Cold brick bit into his shoulders and caught on the thin strands of his shirt.

The contrast burned within him—skin against his chest, stone against his back. She placed her other hand on his stomach and the heat made him groan.

“What—”

Matt Murdock wondered if it was possible for a tornado to shrink down, claim its chaos, and become a person. And he wondered that—should it have managed to do something so miraculous—if the result wasn’t the woman currently pressing against him. Her hands dragged over his torso, nails catching on the dips and valleys of his muscles. They snuck up under his shirt, pressed against the sharp curve of his waist, traced the lines of his anatomy.

At the edge of his waistline, her touch paused and she tilted her head up. He didn’t have to see to know there was a question on her face.

And there was the option. He could say yes to the dangerous, wildfire woman against him. Or he could say no. There was no force behind her, none of that strength that simmered in her bones. The choice was his.

Matt cupped her angular face in his hands, rubbed his thumbs over the smooth skin of her cheeks, tilted her chin, and pressed their dry, chapped lips together. She smirked into the kiss, fingers hooking into the band of his pants, and lifted herself onto her toes.

A finger pulled at the waistband of his underwear and let go so it snapped against his flesh. She laughed as he jumped—all tough love and recklessness. On one side of the alley, a car passed, on the other, a group of people. Men slumped around them, unmoving but breathing and she was around him; all heat and whiskey and cheap hygienic that burned against his skin.

She bit down on his lip, pulling back with it still in her teeth to drag a rugged moan from the back of his throat.  Hot fingers pushed fabric down over his hips and knocked his hands away when he reached to do the same.

“Nuh uh,” her voice was hot against him, burning with her amusement and Matt chased her lips, only capturing them because she came so willingly. Giddiness rose in the back of his throat as her fingers teased the edge of where fabric met skin, dipped just under like learning how to swim before submerging to run over hot flesh.

He choked on his own breath, jerked under her touch, and wrapped one arm around her shoulders. His other hand pressed against the wall to steady both of them as she walked her fingers over the first part of his length, circled them when his underwear constricted the movement, and slid down the shaft. Her own moan swallowed his as her thumb brushed over the head, bringing the slick with it as she moved, up and down, pulling his thoughts from his mind until there was nothing but her hands and lips and _heat_.

Matt held on, his hips jerking into the motion as she took and took and _took_ everything he had to offer. Desperate fingers held onto leather, her smirk was inked into his skin, and the night rose and fell around them. She didn’t swat his hand away the second time he reached for her and he pushed underneath her shit, pressing the flat of his palm against her stomach.

She hissed at the cold, straddled his thigh, and Matt’s knees buckled as she matched the slow grind of her hips with the tidal motion of her hand.

“Oh _fuck_ —” he choked and her laugh was breathless as he came.

There was a single, hot moment where the world was filled with white noise but Matt still reached for her, held her waist, and pushed aside everything so he could press upward and into that simmering desperation. Her arms wrapped around his neck, their chests pressed together, and each gasp against his throat ripped away the stress of the month until it was just them and the sky and the teetering edge of her orgasm.

“Shit,” echoed with a roll of her hips. The seam of her jeans caught on the thin fabric of his pants, stretching to the point of almost tearing. “ _Shit_ ,” she stilled, thighs squeezing as muscles jerked into stiffness. Her head fell into the curve between his shoulder and neck, breath hot as she panted against his collarbone.

Matt wondered if she could break his femur with nothing but her thighs, wondered how long she could hold onto the rusted bars of the fire escape as she hung, thighs around his waist, while he fucked her.

And then he wondered how long it truly took someone to fall in love as she relaxed against him, hair falling over his chest, heart slowing just beneath her thin ribs.

The woman didn’t stay that way for long—he doubted anything could keep her in one place for an extended period of time—but she wiped his mess on his shirt and smirked he fixed his pants. “Thanks, bandana boy,” her voice dripped across him like heavy chocolate—all bitter and sweet and heavy.

Matt couldn’t think of anything to say in response. Couldn’t think of much to say at all. So he cupped her chin in one hand, raised her foul mouth back to his, and nipped at her lips until he could feel himself getting drunk on her taste.

When the whiskey buzzed between them and a siren cut through the distant night, Matt pulled away from the heat of her mouth, raised her hand to his lips, and kissed the wool over the bony knuckles. He jumped back up to the fire escape to flee whatever wrath she might bring, but her laugh followed up the side of the building until he was ducking out onto the roof, out of her sight.

That didn’t stop him from hearing the word she shouted after him, or the amusement that lit his skin aflame.

“Asshole!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY, WHAT'S UP, I SHIP THIS PAIRING WITH EVERY CELL IN MY BODY  
> K THANKS FOR LISTENING  
> THERE MIGHT BE MORE  
> BYE


	2. these reckless nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> she's just beautifully out of place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PRACTICE SAFE SEX KIDS

The sound of a camera shutter, smell of booze, and soft exhale hit Matt at a point where it was too late to stop from landing on the fire escape but gave him just enough time to jerk so he didn’t hit the woman nestled in the cradle of iron. He stumbled, feet catching on a bag and fell shoulder first into a wall.

There would be a bruise there tomorrow but he ignored it in favour of the leopard turning on him with her coat of glass shaped water marks, old leather, and metallic twang. She had gotten new soap—some heavy lime citrus smelling one that mixed seamlessly with the vodka that seemed to swirl around her.

“Jesus, shit!” She snarled—all bristling fur, bared fangs, and sharpened claws—and he was dragged back to the screech of New York. “Watch where you’re going, asshole!”

A snappy comeback about his blindness was on the tip of his tongue and Matt swallowed it, lifted his hands, and backed into the corner. “Didn’t see you,” he said, a sordid smile on his lips at his private inside joke, “sorry.”

Her huff barely made it past her scarf and she shifted, turning away from him. Matt wanted to brush his fingers over her lips to find out if she was smirking or scowling, wanted to run his hands through her hair again. Instead, he sat beside her, one leg dangling over the alley below as the _click, click, click_ of the camera created a symphony between them.

“What are you doing?” Matt spoke up when the curiosity of where the camera was pointing (across the street at a couple of windows) overcame his curiosity of her.

“Working,” her voice was muffled and she fumbled with her phone, cursed when nothing happened—he assumed it was dead but it could have also just been a piece of shit. Who was he to judge?—and started to pack her stuff back into the bag he had tripped on. “People in New York like to sleep around—I just make money off it.”

Matt frowned at the first couple of occupations that were too... _unsavoury_ to fit the woman in front of him (though, what did he know of her anyway besides the fact that she could lift a man with one hand and was willing to fuck strangers in alleyways). “You’re a private investigator?”

“No,” the sarcasm bled over her tongue and dragged over his ribs like the tips of claws, playing the bones like a xylophone as he shivered from the heat of her squeezing between him and the bars of the fire escape. “I take pictures of people fucking and sell them to perverts on street corners.”

Matt laughed under his breath as she went up the side of the building, heading to the rooftop. She was almost on her second set of stairs right above his head when he decided to follow her. At the top, a single jump to her to the roof and he shouldn’t have been surprised; it made sense that the strength would be in her legs which meant she could probably jump higher, run faster, and kick harder.

It took him a bit more to follow her—going from the iron banister to a window and then up—but she was waiting for him. The wind played with her hair, whipping it around and whistling through the strands. Something large was lit across the street—he could hear the buzzing of the sign, feel the light on his skin.

He wondered what kind of shadows it casted across her face, what colours it bathed her in. Was she painted in crimson temptation? Or did the sign dare to paint her in false, sunshine yellow? Each step towards her made him wonder if she would bolt and leave him in the dust or turn and welcome him back.

She did neither. Just stood there. Her heart and breathing stable as he approached.

Matt itched with the desire to touch her, to run his hands along her biceps and the insides of her thighs, to bite down on the skin of her shoulder and feel the heat of her skin against his.

“You’ve been busy,” her voice rolled over him, steady and sure.

Matt tilted his head to the side.

“ _Devil_ ,” she said, amusement swirling between the words. “Devil boy,” her snicker pinged around inside of him, knocking into buttons and parts of himself Matt didn’t even know existed.

It felt good. Different. Bright and heavy all at the same time.

“You and I both know,” he said, the flirtation almost too easy as he stepped forward, “that ‘boy’ might not be the best of terms.”

Her quiet laughter spilled across the rooftop—not mocking in a way that he knew she could, but pleased like she had been waiting—and it was a rough sound. A solid sound. It was the kind of laugh that was filled with whiskey sipping and skinny dipping but managed to be just out of place that it felt like the moon peeking her head out during the day.

Oxygen caught in his throat as she slipped into his space. Hands lifting, he reached out, laying his palms against the tops of her arms as her fingers trailed over his waistline.

 _What are these nights to you?_ Matt wanted to ask. _What type of person lives on the edge of broken poetry and cracked lawlessness?_

She leaned up, her breath wet and hot against his lips before he leaned in to close to distance. He already knew the answer:

Matt was that type of person and there was no possible way he could blame it on an apple or serpentine words. She was no devil and he was no saint, but her hands tumbled them both to the ground and, as she straddled his hips and dragged her lips down his neck, he wondered if she might be his salvation.

Fingers roamed over his cheeks, pushed up underneath his mask, and she leaned over him. Hair slid down, blocking out the world and Matt arched into her rough kiss. Her hands didn’t pull at the fabric, didn’t try to sneak it up for a peak—she just teased around the edges of his identity, sparked a flame of danger that ignited his veins and made him grip her hips a little harder, kiss a little sloppier, moan a little louder.

And she was a selfish creature, pulling him apart piece by piece, finding the cracks and the broken shards of glass that exist in his being and just humming while leaving them be. There was no desire in her to fix him, to fix herself, to fix anything; she was a black bit of charcoal smeared across a white wall and he’d never felt anything more perfect in his life.

Matt dared to put his fingers past her waistline, cupped her ass, ground her down. Teeth nipped at his ear with a smirk on those chapped lips. Her hands pushed his shirt higher on his chest, dragging it up until it slipped over his head and dropped to the concrete. It wasn’t too cold yet, but even if it was he was sure they could melt winter into spring with the heat between their bodies.

Her jacket was shed, the shirt beneath tugged off, and he buried his hands into the scarf she still had around her neck to drag her down. His lips claimed hers and Matt ran his fingers over the cotton bra strap that did little to protect her too-thin ribs.

Each gasp and moan and whimper from her lips fuelled the fire burning in his stomach and Matt dragged his fingers down her sides, over her waist, across her stomach, and stopped at the button of her jeans.

Thighs shifted around his hips and settled, waiting.

He undid the button, brushed his fingers against the soft skin of her abdomen.

She gathered his wrists in one hand and pinned them above his head.

“Oh,” Matt breathed and her strength was there, tempered just above him. Strong enough so he couldn’t move but with just enough careful gentleness that she didn’t bruise his skin. Some part of him was grateful—the other was disappointed.

The soft fabric of her bra dragged against his chest and he choked on his moan, let his head fall back, and arched beneath her. “ _Jesus_.”

Still pinning his arms down, the woman lifted herself up and used one hand to push her jeans down over her legs until she sat on him once more in nothing more than a pair of panties and her bra. The warmth of her body seeped into him and he tugged at her hold as she dragged her palm down his torso, nails scratching across his skin.

“I don’t know,” she said and the words washed over Matt’s skin, starting a gunfire pulse beneath his skin, “whether I want to straddle your hips—”

He licked his Nevada dry lips. _Yes, please_.

“—or your face.”

 _Both. “_ Either,” Matt managed, almost choking on his desire and the words themselves.

She laid across him in cat-like pleasure and fuck-it-all attitude. “Condom?”

 _Shit_. “Don’t have one.”

Her body lifted from his and oxygen filled his lungs as if they were taking their first breath instead of their billionth. Fabric dragged across her skin, hooks unlatched, and he heard two articles of clothing land with the rest. There was no time to think before she was over him, thighs against his cheeks, her body full of quivering anticipation above him.

“Face it is,” she said.

He ran his palms up the sides of her thighs, pressed his fingers into her flesh before his hands settled on her waist. Her taste ran across his tongue and lips and soul like the alcohol she had surrounded herself with and there was nothing but her above him, around him, curling into a section of him that he doubted he could ever pry her out from. She shuddered, legs tightening around his face so his stubble ran across the soft skin and her moan hit him in every pleasure epicentre.

Matt traced her heartbeat, her little twitches, and the sounds that vibrated through her throat and returned to those places over and over until she fell over him, hands braced on the rooftop, hips rolling against his tongue.

“ _Fuck_ ,” she gasped, over and over again until the word became a witch’s mantra through Hell’s Kitchen, bouncing across every bit of metal and stone until Matt felt it in his bones. Concrete broke under her fingers and her whine turned animalistic in desperation.

The smirk came unbidden to his lips and Matt felt her jerk as she felt his amusement against her core.

“Smug bastard,” she breathed.

He doubled his efforts and the woman above him probably drank about two bottles of whiskey in a day, stomped the word _bitch_ under her heel like it was a cockroach, and could probably break every bone in his body with a single punch, but she melted into her pleasure, felt it with all of her being.

It was no surprise that her orgasm would hit like a semi or that Matt had to brace himself as she tensed around him, prepared for a broken jaw at least (then marvelled at her control as all that untamed strength roared through her arms instead of her legs, leaving scars in the rooftop but none on him).

He caught her as she collapsed, her body falling down to his chest as he sat up, skin against skin, her breath hot and rapid against his neck as she came down from her high. His mask had ridden high up his nose but hadn’t quite been pushed over his eyes. As she recovered, he pulled it back down and thought about his face and the mess before all that fled and her mouth—hot and open—was on his.

She didn’t give a fuck about the mess, didn’t give a fuck about the taste; she just settled in his lap like it was where she planned to be.

Her hand drifted down between them, touched his aching desire with feather-like lightness, and pushed his pants down his thighs. Matt groaned and she held his erection against her slick heat and couldn’t stop the desperate thrust of his hips.

Arms wrapped around his shoulders, their chests pressed together, and she ground against him, rolling her hips until the unsteadiness came back to her lungs and her heart matched the rhythm of his own. She didn’t take him inside of her, but tilted her hips so he was trapped within the cradle of her thighs, surrounded by slick, hot skin. Each desperate thrust grew harder and faster until he grunted, pulled her to him, and mixed his own mess with hers.

Her patience settled around them as she waited for Matt to be able to think again and, when his hands rubbed over her thighs, she moved away. Each movement echoed back to him as she picked up discarded clothing and tugged each back on one by one.

He sat there, listening to her, breathing in the smell of sex and New York that had managed to overwhelm the twisting fog of vodka and lime. The zipper of her jeans hissed through the night, followed swiftly by her jacket and he reached out to pick up his own abandoned shirt. The fabric was rough against his face but he wiped his mouth with it anyway knowing that he wouldn’t be able to smell anything but her for the rest of the night.

 “Next time,” she said with a strange cadence to her tone and they both paused at those words.

_Next time._

The woman shrugged the weight of them off her shoulders. “Next time; bring a condom.”

“Sure,” Matt said, listening to her walk to the edge of the rooftop. She stood on ledge, looked down at the alley below, and he remembered that the fire escape was on the other side of the building.

“Wait—!”

She jumped and he scrambled to his feet, blood roaring in his ears as he heard nothing, nothing, _nothing—_

Motorcycle boots landed on the sidewalk below, softer than he could of ever thought possible, and he laughed around his disbelief, a grin slowly forming on his features as she walked away. Shrugging his shirt back on, he reached around and ran his palm over the ten deep grooves she had left in the rooftop.

_What a woman._


	3. that long, treacherous road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> girls who drink whiskey tend to tell good stories

 

The Russians thought he had beheaded someone. Vladimir’s brother, one of the leaders of the organization, was gone and it seemed like the entirety of the underworld thought he had been the one to do it. Temptation nipped at Matt’s heels for the rest of the night and into the day beyond. Not even the solace of a new case could distract him because someone— _someone_ —out in the world of black markets and trafficking had managed to convince everyone else that he was hunting them all down.

It was true that he was hunting them down, but not to kill them. That didn’t stop him from needing answers and the only way to do that was investigative work.

Matt guessed he was lucky that he knew a PI—even though she had the mouth of a sailor and a wild side that make his soul ignite—and one simple search for female investigators in Hell’s Kitchen would have gotten him a name and an address for her business. It was something else that had stopped him, something else that made his fingers pause each time he thought to type what he knew into Google.

A part of him—the Catholic side—would have liked to call it respect for her boundaries but Matt knew that wasn’t quite the case.

He was a selfish man who liked the game they played where they tangoed around each other’s identity—her not prying, him not asking. It felt fair, in some way, to not know her name when she didn’t know what he looked like behind the mask.

(Another part of him was afraid that she would find out and that spark that had ignited every encounter they had would go out.)

Instead, he ducked around bars and bodegas, hoping to hear her voice among the patrons. It could have taken days to find her but life had a funny way of caring about his problems though. He almost passed her by and it took a moment to recognize the scuff of her boots and the creak of her leather jacket. She cursed under her breath and he breathed in, focusing on the faint whiff of Jack that was currently overpowered by a dash of something deeply earthy with just a touch of breezy citrus. Most perfumes had the undercurrent of chemicals; the ones that shifted just beneath the surface.

She didn’t wear one of those; it was mostly organic with the occasional stray synthetics, and mixed well with the honey in her soap. Jeans had been replaced by trousers that were a bit more formal but smelled a bit musty from sitting in a closet for too long. No clink of a bottle, no waft of alcohol, and he wondered for a moment if it was really her.

But a man said something, leaning over to pat her ass, and yelped when she twisted his arm back. His body hit the ground with a _thump_ and she scoffed but kept walking.

Yeah. It was her.

Matt waited until she was heading down one of the alleys before dropping down behind her and was slammed against the nearby wall the second he regained his footing. Her palm was against his chest—an echo of the first night they met—and her breathing and heart rate had spiked higher than the Empire State Building.

“Sorry,” he said, lifting his hands. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Her fingers curled into his shirt as she forcibly worked to slow her breathing. A car passed by the entrance of the alley and a group of people laughed as they passed. It was still early in the night—almost too early—with enough people around to make being out in the open dangerous.

“What’re you doing?” The words were hissed under her breath and he smelled the cinnamon gum she had been chewing. Anxiety clung to her, steeped into the air around her and he couldn’t tell if it was from him or something else. “Are you following me?”

“No,” he said, which was true barring the last ten or so minutes. “I need to ask you something.”

Her sigh settled between them like a San Francisco fog and her body leaned away from him, eyes turning to the street. The warmth of her hand seeped through Matt’s shirt against the chill of the night. He had to force himself to focus on the people in the buildings around them rather than how close she was to his body and how good that perfume smelled when it surrounded him—all late night mystery and dangerous deeds.

“Not here,” she said, cutting through his thoughts. “The parking garage on 49th, you know it?”

He nodded.

“Top floor. I’ll meet you there.”

Matt climbed silently up the fire escape and heard her sigh behind him, muttering about alcohol and how he was going to drive her to drink. He still followed her through the streets, listening to her footsteps among hundreds of others, tracking her from the tops of the buildings. Most people got out of her way and those that were too foolish to stay in her path were knocked out of it. It took him a moment, listening to the harsh beat of her heart and the way her breathing hitched in her throat to figure it out.

She was angry. Not enough to take it out on the strangers around her, but angry at something that caused her feet to fall a little heavier and her body to bulldoze through the unsuspecting masses that dared to get in her way.

When she met him on the top floor of the parking garage, the lights buzzing around them, shadows long enough to hide their meeting, her breathing and heartbeat had evened out enough that Matt knew, at the least, she wasn’t angry at him.

“Alright, Bandana Boy,” she said readjusting her bag so she could lean against the wall. Her arms crossed over her chest and he wondered what she looked like; all punk attitude in business casual. “What is it?”

“I need your help.”

She was a good listener, though not a particularly patient one, asking questions at the right time to skip past the fluff to get to the substance. Her mind slid pieces together and jerked him around like he was a kite and the string rested in her uncaring hands. There wasn’t even a second of emotional connection; to her, at that moment, he was a client, laying out his case in front of her and waiting for her judgement.

“—But I can’t pay you a lot,” Matt admitted. Business was slow and he needed to save what he could. The last couple of clients were good but private investigators could charge anything they wanted if their services were good enough.

Her fingers tapped against her thigh, a nervous tick when she was thinking, and sighed. “You get eight hours,” she said. “I just finished my last client’s case today—”

Which explained the outfit and perfume. Matt wanted to slap himself for not thinking of it earlier.

“—So I have enough time. How much can you afford?”

He blinked and tilted his head. “Afford?”

Her sigh was tired but there wasn’t a complete bite to it. Not yet. “Yes, _asshole_ ,” She said. “ _Afford_. How much money can you spare without putting yourself in a shitty position?”

“Two hundred,” Matt said honestly. Barring a dry spell of cases, he could probably pay her more later for her time. At some places two hundred would barely get him two hours.

 “Fine,” she accepted without much of a thought and shifted through her bag to grab a notepad and pen. “And since you said you’re not following me, we’re going to need a place to meet up.”

Matt frowned. He could pick a neutral zone; the parking garage they were in, some random rooftop. Or he could repay a favour with trust.

“Fogwell’s gym,” Matt said before he could back out. “The one—”

“I know it,” she said. “Boxing place, right?”

He nodded once, sharply. “At midnight.”

Her scoff was more tease than full on mocking and she pushed her hair over her shoulder. “Sure thing, Batman,” she drawled. “I’ll bring all their dirty little secrets to your super secret man cave.”

Gratefulness swelled in his chest and he breathed her in—all the smells that had settled around her for the day and the ones lurking just beneath the surface; the ones that were hers and no one else’s.

“Thank you,” Matt told her, wanting to reach for her, but held back, turned away, and made his way back out into the night.

 

* * *

 

It was raining the next night, sending the world into sharp relief as water pattered off metal, wood, and stone. People stayed inside, not wanting to come out and dare the cold. It made for a quiet night, a still night, and one that he could rest easy knowing that the criminals he was hunting would also be bunked down somewhere, staying out of the weather.

Matt heard her before she got to the door; boots splashing through thin puddles, the storm cascading down the hood of the sweater she wore underneath her regular, leather jacket. She didn’t seem all too bothered by the storm and even stopped a couple of times to glance up at the sky. By the time her feet paused in front of the gym, he had tugged on his mask and was waiting.

She hesitated at the sign, ran a fingernail over the black lettering, and took hold of the doorknob. The wood swung open beneath her hand, hinges groaning from age, and she shook off excess water from her jacket and boots before fully coming inside.

Everything was humid, the place smelled like canvas and sweat that had been washed but still couldn’t manage to get out the years and years of working bodies that had been in the building. She penetrated the place with the elements that raged outside still clinging stubbornly to her skin. A freshness that seeped into Matt’s bones.

“Thank you—” he stepped forward out of the shadows, having the whole of what he wanted to say rehearsed in his mind since he had arrived four hours ago.

It all went out the door as her entire body jerked, rubber squeaking against the wood floors, heart snapping to attention and she turned to him, fist raised and bag held like a mace on a chain.

Which she might bludgeon him with if he got any closer.

“It’s just me!” He danced back in case some part of her decided that defence was better than listening to anything he had to say.

Thankfully, the bag wasn’t thrown at his head and she pressed one hand against her raging heart. “Shit!” She took deep breaths to calm her ragged inhales. “Stop doing that!”

He lifted his hands sheepishly and kept back as she pushed the hood off her hair and dropped her bag on one of the wooden chairs. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Yeah, well,” she unzipped her jacket and the hoodie underneath it. “It’s just been a shit storm of a week I guess.”

Matt had no right to ask her about it. They weren’t exactly friends or colleagues; just strangers who knew a bit more about each other than most. That didn’t stop him from wondering even as she dug through the pockets of her bag, cursing, before fishing out a flash drive.

She tossed it over and the throw was a bit too short but he still managed to catch it. “There you go,” her tone was steady but there was something underneath it—a hitch, a slowness. Exhaustion.

Matt frowned. “How much do I owe you?”

Impatience rose from her like a tidal wave threatening to crash down around them. “We already agreed on two hundred,” she said waspishly.

“I know,” Matt said easily, not taking it personally. “But you spent your time on it so, when I can, how much do I owe you?”

Her weight shifted and she frowned. “Four hundred,” she finally offered, sounding like the answer was being dragged out of the very depths of her being and it was a major inconvenience the whole way.

 _Six hundred total_. Matt knew she was still giving him a discount, but that was fine. He wouldn’t push. Instead, he made his way back to his gym bag and tucked the drive away underneath the layers of his day clothes. Across the room, he heard her zip up her own bag and sigh.

“I know I can’t make up the rest to you now,” he said, “but I could teach you a little bit about boxing.”

The woman froze halfway in the motion of swinging her bag over her shoulder. “You’re joking, right?”

“Not in the least,” he turned towards her but stayed where he was as her heart pounded out a rhythm that matched the patter of rain outside. The unease dripped off of her like the water still dripping to the floor, and fingers tightened on the strap of the bag, squeezing the fabric more than it was probably used to.

“You do realize that if I hit you too hard,” she was completely serious; no sarcasm, no bullshit, just straight up truth, “I could kill you?”

Matt didn’t have the time to wonder about why her heart sped up or the sudden breath she had to take after admitting that. “More of a reason to learn,” he said. “It’ll teach you confidence in your abilities. And a way to defend yourself that’s not just shoving people into walls.”

“Fuck you,” she said, the humour underneath the words bleeding out just enough to make him smirk.

Matt waited in his corner, letting her shift through her thoughts as he picked at the fabric already wrapped around his own hands. She let him make his choices, he let her make hers. No hard feelings if she walked out—though there would have been some disappointment at being unable to watch her in action.

Outside, the rain continued to fall, creating streams on the streets and waterfalls off the roofs. The world was never so clearer than it was when it rained but, even then, Matt was focused on the woman who stood across from him, listening to the air that filled her lungs and the blood that pumped in her arteries and veins.

The bag landed back on the chair, jacket and hoodie hung on the hooks, and she stomped her way over to him.

“So,” the words were grumbled, “How do we do this?”

Matt grinned and reached into his bag to tug out the extra black rolls of fabric. “We’re going to have to wrap your hands so they don’t get damaged by the bag, first,” he said, holding out his hand. She slid hers into it after a tense couple of seconds and he couldn’t help but take in the softness of her skin, the thinness of her fingers, and the way his palm almost engulfed hers.

With careful motions, he started the wrap at her wrist and felt her shift, head tilting down to watch.

“Oh?” There it was; that dark forest amusement. “So I won’t be hitting you?”

“Do you want to?”

She snorted. “It’s tempting.”

Matt shook his head and couldn’t even pretend to be bothered by the playful threat. “Do you want to punch the bag?”

“I’m pretty sure I’ll break it,” she said and her heart drummed out _truth, truth, truth_.

He tilted his head to the side, eyebrows rising underneath the fabric. “How strong are you?”

Perhaps her hesitation should have spoken for itself, but silence settled between them, filled only by the buzzing of the lights outside the gym and the rain on the roof.

“Too strong,” she admitted at last.

Matt didn’t know what that meant. Was she so strong that it took concentration every second to keep from the breaking the world around her? Or did she have to concentrate to turn it on?

“Okay,” he said instead. “How about just punch it with the strength you’re comfortable with?”

She did.

The one hundred pound bag that barely twitched when he hit it swung like a child on a swing set. Wood creaked above them and the chain groaned as he followed its path up and up until the bottom hit the ceiling before starting its descent.

 _Holy shit_.

Her small, wrapped hands caught the canvas before it could hit her and eased the bag back into position. “Too hard?”

Matt didn’t like the nervousness that didn’t belong in her fuck-it-all voice and laughed. “Maybe,” he said, keeping his voice good natured. “Just a tiny little bit.” Thinking back on that night in the alley and the one on the rooftop, he couldn’t keep the awe that flared in his chest at the acknowledgment that she could have done some serious damage to her attackers (and to _him_ , God with her thighs around his head. His skull would have given out underneath the pressure like an egg and she managed to not even _squeeze_ ).

 “What’s the level of strength you use when you punch people?”

She stiffened and shifted her weight. “When I punch them?”

Matt nodded.

Her form shifted back into position and he reached forward without thinking to guide her hands higher and widen her stance. He paused, hands on her hips to straighten them, when he realized what he was doing. The muscles along her shoulders were so tight he could hear the strain on the muscles underneath her t-shirt and lifted his palms—slowly—from her body.

“Sorry,” he murmured.

The answering grunt was a mix of ‘whatever’ and ‘don’t do it again’.

Stepping back, Matt gave her space and waited. The woman took a deep breath, blew a strand of hair out of her face, and hit the bag once more.

It didn’t move and she hit it again and again and again. _Pap, pap, pap_. Each hit was calculated in the microsecond before it was thrown until she was hitting with the same strength as a heavy hitter boxer—only she was roughly one hundred and some pounds soaking wet and half their size.

“I thought you were going to teach me something?” She said around the sound of her fists hitting the bag.

Matt listened to the way her flesh cut through the air, to the way her shoulders rotated and her heart kept steady. “Without the proper equipment,” he said, “I don’t think I can.”

Her next punch sent the bag off the chain and it flew through the air, crashed down on the wood floor, and slid until it hit the wall. She huffed and walked after it, lifting the whole thing with one hand and carried it back to the hook. Just underneath the wooden beam in the ceiling, she paused, tilting her head back to stare at the metal two or so feet above her head.

“Maybe you should open up a gym for superpowered freaks,” she muttered.

Matt frowned. “You’re not a—”

She jumped, taking the back with her, and hooked the chains back together before he could finish. Just like the night on the roof, her landing was light instead of the thud he expected. He sucked in a breath.

“Sure,” she drawled.

His heart was beating a bit too fast in his chest. “You’re very strong,” the words left him like a choke.

The snort that tore out of her nose was followed by sharp, knife-like laughter. “No _shit_ —” she froze.

Matt felt heat climb up through his cheeks beneath her gaze and cursed his Irish history because it was probably painted across his God damn face. She stepped closer and he fought the urge to turn and run.

“Do you like strong women, Bandana Boy?”

It was fucking _mortifying_ but he didn’t move as paused just on the edge of his personal space. When Matt didn’t back away, her body moved in closer, arms wrapping loosely around his waist. Answering seemed like a bad choice, so he kept quiet, but his traitorous thoughts swarmed through his brain while his mouth grew dry.

Her pulse sung a song in her chest and she leaned against him. The punching had done nothing to elevate her heart beat or breathing, but he felt both rise as she got so close to him. “Did you bring condoms?”

“Yes,” Matt cupped her cheek.

She hummed and pressed her lips underneath his ear. Her breath lit fireworks under his skin. “You should go get them.”

It took every bit of self control he had to walk to his bag and find the box and every bit of strength in his bones not to run back to her. Her kiss greeted him when he returned; hot and hungry and blazing through his chest.

Fingers played with the hem of his shirt and Matt pulled away with a gasp. She leaned into him, following his mouth with her own and he dragged his tongue along her lower lip earning a guttural moan. “Not here,” he said, breathless as she pulled the oxygen from his lungs. “The owner will kill me.”

Taking her hand, he led her further into the gym and to the empty locker rooms. Only a few lights were on, buzzing in the ceiling. Water dripped in one of the showers and the humidity had managed to sneak in and soak through the walls.

The door closed behind them and he left the box of condoms on the sink counter, pushed her against the wood, held her face in his hands, and kissed her. One hand clung to his shoulder, the other played with the hair peeking out beneath his mask, and she opened her thighs to straddle his leg.

Somewhere above them, a fan came to life and it buzzed through the vents, managing to mix with their hot breathing and wild hearts.

Matt ran his hands down her sides, over her hips, and dug his fingers into her thighs. She gasped as he lifted one of her legs, pressing up against her until her hips rolled and her nails dragged along his skin. The mask grew heavy on his face as the moisture in the air settled in it and the edges chaffed against his skin. He adjusted it twice, debated tugging it off, and just rested his forehead against her shoulder.

She licked her lips, placed her palms flat against his chest, and pushed him up. “I have an idea.”

Her heat pulled away and Matt groaned at the loss, listening instead as she walked over to the spare towels. Lifting one off the rack, she ran it under the faucet, wrung out the excess water, and returned.

Matt tilted his head to the side, unable to figure out what, exactly, she planned to do with it as she folded it over and over until it was nothing more than a long, thick tube.

In one swift motion, she tied it over her eyes. “There,” her voice was soft and she reached out blindly.

Catching her hand in his, Matt speckled kissed over her wrapped knuckles, over her palm, and down to her wrist. Her breath hitched as his lips met the unguarded soft skin of her forearm and she reached up, ran her fingers under the edge of the mask, and pushed it up over his hair.

It fell to the floor and he left it there, tugging her mouth back to his. Cold water dripped from the edges of the towel, mixing with the heat of their hunger and making Matt groan. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he murmured against her lips.

She smirked. “You’re the one who likes strong woman.” Her hands gathered up the front of his shirt and she tugged him down, the fabric ripping ever so slightly in her hold. The words were whispered but blazed across his flesh like the near miss of a bullet and created a constellation of blazing nerves.

“ _Prove_ it.”

The shirt went first, pulled over her head and left limp and lifeless on the ground. Muscle twitched under his hand and Matt ran his fingers along the edge of her waistband, hooked through the belt loops, and tugged her hips to his. She leaned into his body, exploring his arms and shoulders with her hands as he pushed her jeans further down on her hips, revealing a slim line of her panties.

Her tugs at the hem of his own shirt urged them to separate long enough so he could tug it over his head before they were together again, her teeth on his lips, hands on his shoulder blades. The towel brushed across his face occasionally, reminding him of the trust she had placed in his hands. Reaching under her thighs, he lifted her, pressed her spine against the door, and pressed into the space. Hooking around him, her legs tightened and held her body up, keeping the weight entirely on her core muscles instead of his arms.

Matt dragged his mouth over the curves of her breasts, tasted the skin hidden in the dip of her collarbones, and moaned as her nails combed through his hair, scratching lightly along his scalp. Kissing up her neck and back to her mouth, he lifted her just enough to unsnap the clasps on her bra and pulled the fabric over her arms. It joined her shirt on the floor and she arched into him, pressing her skin to his, and he moaned at the feeling of them together.

His fingers fumbled with the button and zipper of her jeans and she gasped when his hands dipped between them, past the thin fabric of her underwear, and he lowered her to the ground to strip her down to nothing.  Boots were kicked to the side, denim and cotton following.

Matt leaned back against the sink as she ran her hands blindly over his chest and stomach, drawing little doodles across his skin before landing on the band of his pants. She breathed in, breathed out, and the air was cold across his flushed flesh. With deliberate slowness, her hands pulled down the fabric, pushed it to his knees, and he let it fall to his feet before stepping out and towards her.

His hand found the box of condoms and he tugged a single foil out as she ran her palms up and down his thighs. Faster than he thought she would be able to, her hand plucked the package out of his fingers and she ripped it open with a smile and her teeth.

“Jesus,” Matt prayed as she slid it on and moaned when she turned, back against his chest, and slid her ass against his front.

 _Message received_.

Turning them around, he heard the wet slap of her palms against the counter, the stutter of her breath, and she took everything he could give.  A wild thing beneath his touch that was no more tamed by their bodies coming together than the light pollution of Manhattan could make a star vanish.

Water dripped down her face from the towel, falling on the counter like tears, and she breathed and gasped and moaned. Matt forgot everything as the ocean of his soul raged to match the fire of hers.  

Bit by bit she tore poetry from his flesh until he was beneath her and she claimed what she needed in the same selfish way dancers claimed from music and he was helpless to stop her and too in love to care.  

Matt wished upon her skin like a shooting star as they fell apart into the pleasure that bordered on agony.  She was blind Justice cradling him between her thighs, delivering his sentence with each roll of her hips and hot open press of her lips. Behind her teeth was the whiskey that made her brave and the night that made her bold and he learned what he could as she pushed his shoulders into the tile and broke his desire like a wave on the shore.

Coming inside her was just him unravelling like a tangled mess of string finally straightened after so many years of unwilling fingers too afraid to brave the knots. His hands settled on the subtle curve of her waist, thumbs digging into the space just under her ribs as she threw back her head, braced her palms on his chest, and broke apart above him.

It was no wonder the pagan deities of love were women because he was drunk upon a stranger’s flesh (that was becoming less of a stranger and more of a secret that was only whispered in the latest hours of the night). The locker room was filled with the echoes of their breathlessness, the storm continued outside, and she dropped her head to rest her forehead against his chest.

He reached up to wrap his arms around her shoulders, rub his hands down her spine, and she shivered as the cold air finally seemed to awaken her heated skin. Against the heat of her face, the towel seemed to blaze with a winter chill and Matt ran his finger along the edges, over her brow, and across the crown of her head.

“Why this?” He said and the words were stripped down by the way he had gasped and cried out against her.

She trailed her fingers over the soft, exposed parts of his neck. “I like mysteries,” her voice hummed through him and he snorted but the words continued, not done quite yet. “I like piecing them together.”

“Is that what it is?” Matt tightened his hold around her waist and was ready for the panic to settle in his gut.

It never did.

“I’ll figure you out,” she promised and leaned up so her breath was hot against his ear. “But not because I ripped your mask off in a locker room.”

“Because you earned it?”

Hands reached up, slid their fingers blindly across his jaw and cheeks before they pulled him into a kiss. “Something like that,” she whispered against his teeth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this might come as a surprise from someone writing a fic that is based purely around sex but i actually hate writing detailed porn so!  
> *finger guns* have fun!

**Author's Note:**

> HEY, WHAT'S UP, I SHIP THIS PAIRING WITH EVERY CELL IN MY BODY  
> K THANKS FOR LISTENING  
> THERE MIGHT BE MORE  
> BYE


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